


Time

by lemon_and_chai



Series: Requited [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Angst, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-20
Updated: 2004-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_and_chai/pseuds/lemon_and_chai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No more than an introspection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I ever published. Ah, youth...

When was the first time we met? Perhaps two years ago, when we came to this school, but I don't remember. Before I knew it, you and I held a constant proximity, near but not too close, far but not too distant. We saw each other in class, we saw each other on the courts. Our lockers were next to each other.

Even so, we said very little. You and I are not ones to exchange many words. Though sometimes you emit pleasantries, genial phrases that help you merge with the world, depth and honesty remain for you as thoughts alone. I am the same. Society accepts me for my intelligence and adaptivity, and that is enough. Unnecessary conversations and associates are carefully sorted and cut off appropriately. I need air, and food, and shelter, and I will survive satisfactorily. Even if I am alone.

I have always rejected the superfluous emotions that my peers seem vexingly bound to. With giddy foolishness they pass perfumed letters and doting gifts, waiting sometimes for hours beneath the pale blossomed trees behind the school, as if fulfillment or purpose will come in their lives through the acceptance of another. But when their poured out feelings remain unrequited, they grip desperately at their torn hearts, then recover daffily by the next morning.

You and I are the same. Always the receivers of such foolery, always the ones to slash across those superficial confessions, always the ones to be blamed afterwards for our supposedly cruel partakes.

Both you and I stand upon a godly mountain, wafting in the cool thin air with predominant breath, far above the level our schoolmates shall ever attain, even after a lifetime of growth.

Yet we do not wallow in conceit; each of us is aware of his own shortcomings, of the mistakes that each of us has made, of the evils we both have committed. But we are more aware of the faults that those around us succumb to, ignorant in misplaced bliss at the chaos they birth. You laugh them off so lightly, I reflect them with a frown. Such imperfections must not be added to our own. We both seek crowns.

You and I were born from the same tree. An archangel resides above each of us, guarding us and guiding us. Even destiny sweeps us into the celestial path, calling us to higher altitudes.

I did not know it at first. But each glimpse at those astute cerulean orbs by degree convinces me; we were meant to stand adjacent.

And perhaps that is the reason.

When did this begin? A pounding heart, its din incomprehensible, a jagged dagger that slides across it, whenever you grow near. My skin turns cold with frigid sweat and my voice grows weak in panic. I am not one for words, no, but now I cannot form even those that are necessary for my existence. Perhaps that is because, at these moments, when our bodies draw so near, my existence loses meaning. If only I could fade into your tranquilizing voice, its soft vibrations cooing in almost effeminate condition... if only I could fall into the azure sky within your eyes...

Despite the cover of my lids, your smile remains unwavering before my eyes, in the day as I am taking notes, in the evening as I am walking home, in the night as I await the coming sleep. Always I can hear the ruffling chuckles, small but gentle, amused but caring. The graceful flow of your pale brown hair, whisking lightly against your cheeks and lips as you dance across the court, deceptively angelic until the ball rips across the net in an irreturnable stroke.

Though the finishing blow comes from me. But only in tennis.

Six games to love, with the latter referring to me. You are my greatest fault, and the key to my downfall. Your insidious glance shall draw me to the labyrinth called emotion, and leave me lost for all eternity. This frivolity called love which I look down upon in other men has taken me with its tongue, drawing me eagerly into its gaping mouth to be devoured.

I am not like them. I will say nothing. My stern visage shall remain without inflection, stoic and uncaring though I may be called, but I never expected any particular affection from those around. You will never know my feelings, you will never guess; even with your powers my mind shall remain my fortress, impervious even to those sharp blue eyes. I will not be a fool.

"Good morning, Tezuka."

Your Duchenne smile, unwavering as always, bellow lashes that hide the only entryway to your soul, present even for this dawn houred practice some others chose to sleep through.

"Fuji."

My crisp reply, accompanied by a curt nod of acknowledgement.

This soft exchange of the morning colloquial, then we are off to practice. Helios begins to warm the air as the athletic movements draw energy to our skin, sweat and heavy breathing slowly consuming what courtesy we have; without emotions to begin with, we are left with only tennis.

Ending practice means beginning school. The other regulars moan and whine, tests unstudied for, homework unfinished, projects unprepared; but neither of us need to worry. My body seeks a temporary refuge on the coach's bench, a few minutes rest before time resumes.

Then as always you come and set yourself beside me, carefully fitting your golden racket into your bag and arranging it amongst the other books and supplies you've fit in there. My shrunken pupils tilt cautiously to watch your motion, but my other muscles remain stiff, unresponsive to this tiny intrusion, hiding away the heart which pounds with unbearable volume beneath them.

After a brief time, you will move on.

I sit beside you, silent, and wait for these feelings to pass.


End file.
